


Mother Midnight

by clair_de_neptune



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Based on Witch/Comtesse skins, Disturbing Themes, F/F, Vampire AU, gore cw, tbqh it's a mashup of aus: supernatural/victorian/medieval? im drawing from a lot of stuff here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_neptune/pseuds/clair_de_neptune
Summary: The Witch has lived in relative peace and quiet for the past few decades - save for an incident with a basilisk here, a kelpie there. Occasionally a rabid werewolf, or, once, a more problematic (but nevertheless solvable) issue with a cleverloup-garou.When vampirism begins to creep into the crevices of the land of Westmoor, infecting its citizens quietly but relentlessly, the Witch sees it in her best interest to figure out the source of the disease.The Witch knows quite well she is equipped with both the power and knowledge to destroy the root of the issue...but does she have the heart to?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my trash vampire!AU fic inspired by two of my favorite skins.
> 
> A gore warning will pertain to many parts of this story (this chapter included). These are vampires we're dealing with, and it's messy.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Witch had encountered all manner of creature and monster in her long, quiet life. She knew of their presence, knew when they crept too close to the little town down the road, knew when they began harassing the villagers. Those both brave and foolish would knock heavily on her wooden door and demand that she coat their weapons with vile poisons, enchant their armors with protective magicks, give them potions and poultices to save them when they fall at the mercy of a snarling thing with fangs. She did this with a stern diligence, and only served them if they had something useful to give—after all, such precious, costly things came at a high price. She was no do-gooder, certainly not a saint, and never received any sort of thanks.

From the ones that survived, anyway.

But this she did not mind, for it was her smaller services she offered that kept her sustained: fresh fruit and vegetables in exchange for healing remedies; milk and dairies in exchange for casting a calming spell on a distressed cow during birth; good firewood in exchange for cleansing haunted homes. It was in this way that she lived, solitary, yet content.

The villagers still regarded her warily, though she never showed any sign of wrongdoing. This she also did not mind. It was a useless effort to try and change the minds of lay people regarding magicks. They were told stories about old, twisted witches snatching children from their cradles and cooking them in their pots, of warty faces and gnarled fingers wiggling out malicious, dark shadows that tricked the eyes—and though the Witch did none of this, nor had any desire to, the people kept their distance with cautious respect. It did the Witch a service, almost, and kept them from getting too… _friendly_ with her. A healthy, fearful respect between both parties was required, she thought. It was better this way.

So it no doubt surprised the Witch when her door shuddered with not a heavy, persistent knock, but a light, frantic one. Rising from her chair by the fire, she gathered her cloak and opened the door.

 A peasant knelt before her at her doorstep, clutching an alarmingly pale woman against his chest. “Oh thank the gods!” he cried. “P-please, she’s my wife…the doctors in the town couldn’t do nothin’ to help. S-she’s barely got a heartbeat and she’s so cold…”

The Witch regarded the shaking man with a sharp eye. “You are sure you can repay me after?”

“Yes!” he cried again. “Please, just help her!”

“It is _crucial_ for you to understand that there is no guarantee I will be able to save her. You still owe me a repayment regardless.”

He nodded again, convulsing with stifled sobs.

The Witch spun on her heel and gestured him to follow. “Get her in here, quickly. Put her on the table. I need you to answer all of my questions as soon as I ask them and do _exactly_ as I say.”

Some noise of affirmation from behind her. It would do.

The Witch sprang into action, plucking leaves off of plants on the windowsill, digging up and snipping off roots, carefully measuring out dusts and other ingredients. As she ground them with the mortar and pestle, she asked, “When did she begin looking like this?”

The man wrung his hands worriedly. “Ah…about three or four days ago? She was jus’ a little pale and shaky, so we thought she ‘ad caught the chills. She rested in bed and we would give her soup and warm milk but nothin’ would make her feel better.”

“And what did she eat?”

The man furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

The Witch glared at him. Time was _precious_ if this was what she thought it was. “Let me make this a little clearer for you: did she hesitate or refuse to eat any foods? Particularly anything _not_ meat?”

He nodded quickly. “We would give her soup an’ her face would get all screwy when she ate it. Like it made her sick.”

The Witch clenched her jaw and glanced out the window. The sun was getting ready to set.

“Come with me,” she snapped, beckoning with a finger as she whisked over to the table with the now-finished poultice. She set it down on the table, then balled the woman’s shirt fabric in either fist, and tore it in half.

“What’re’ya—!”

The Witch glared at him again, voice rigid. “If you want me to save your wife, you will pardon my intrusion. Take that poultice and spread it on both sides of her neck, on her lips, and on her chest. Over her heart. I will be back.”

The man swallowed and nodded as she briskly walked out of the room.

\---

This was not good. And she knew it wasn’t going to end well. But she had to try.

Hurriedly, the Witch snatched a small knife from her bedside table and, from its drawers, a long bag made of cotton, tied at its end with string.

Outside her door, she could hear the woman begin to convulse on the table. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and steeled herself before walking out with each item in hand.

\---

“Get a vial from that counter there,” she instructed the man, “and by the gods, don’t break it.”

He returned with it pinched between his fingers, trembling with fear as his wife began to shake uncontrollably in every limb. “What…what’s happening to her?”

The Witch ignored him. “Hold this arm steady.”

Reluctantly (gods! with reluctance! did this man know nothing of urgency?), he gripped his wife’s arm tightly. The Witch drew her knife, curled one hand around her thin flesh, cold as ice, and squeezed before making an incision with the blade. Blood emerged slowly from the wound, thick like molasses. She wrung the arm harder. Her husband cringed as she guided it into the vial.

“Wrap it,” she pointed to the cloth on a nearby table, “while I begin the incantation. Then hold her at the shoulders. As tight as you can.”

While he was distracted, she slowly fingered the string on the cloth bag, untying it silently and slipped her grip around the contents inside. Its smooth, polished surface felt cool against her hand, but not hardly as cold as the blood that was in the vial, unnaturally dark and stinking of death.

Closing her eyes, the Witch slipped into darkness. She forced herself to focus on the vial’s coldness, and imagined a winter much colder than this, a winter that made the heart numb and the living sleep. Words of an unknown language, coiled and soft, a hiss on her breath, seeped from her lips like the blood from the woman’s wound.

She could not hear the man’s panicked voice, elevating with each passing second. She was deaf to the world, forcing the winter away with spring, life and warmth, but the bitterness and rancor of winter was stuck in her nose, her mouth…

The incantation hastened, the words blended together. The man was most likely screaming now. She knew what he was seeing. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it grating against her teeth. The spring waned. The looming shadow of winter, thick with hunger, an eternal famine, descended upon spring like a predator.

The wail of the woman snapped her out of her trance, and beheld before her was the aftermath: the woman’s veins, bulged and blackened against her pallid skin, crept up her neck and spindled along her cheeks; she flailed wildly on the table, nails scraping into the wood and splintering her little fingers while her husband faithfully pinned her down, shouting at the Witch to _do something_.

It was then the Witch finally removed the object from the cotton-white bag: a long, smooth, polished piece of ivory-colored wood pointed at its tip. She held it with a knuckle-white grip as she drove it through the woman’s chest, through her heart, and the _blood_. By the gods, the _blood_. Dark and viscous it leapt, splattering against the man’s face and chest as the broken organ heaved and throbbed and the woman screamed and screamed and screamed, throat wrenching from the sheer exertion and pain, but still the Witch twisted the stake in place until the screams became cries and the cries became sobs and the sobs became whimpers and the whimpers became one, singular, inaudible exhalation.

And the woman stilled.

The Witch breathed in slowly, and refused to look the man in the eye. “Keep holding her, please.”

The man, too shocked to pull away, did what he was told.

Taking another breath in, the Witch stepped away from the woman and opened the drawer to the long-table nearby; within it were surgical tools. Plucking a few from their orderly rows, she returned to the almost-dead woman stuck to the table.

“What…what happen’d…to my wife?”

The man blinked blankly at her, expressionless, numb with terror. Slowly, and carefully, he disobeyed her orders as he removed one hand from his wife’s shoulder and wiped away some of the blood on his cheek. He withdrew his fingers and stared at them, like they had answers. “What…was…”

The Witch sighed. “She came down with chills, first. Then, refusal to eat anything except, I would assume, meat. The fourth or fifth day is usually when the transformation happens. If she was starved long enough—and she was—it is extraordinarily painful, and she would be feral.”

“Feral…?”

“A vampire. Without being taught proper, they are unable to control themselves.”

The man continued to stare at her, expression now unreadable, as she picked up a tool and began to make quick incisions around the stake. “To ensure that she is completely dead,” she explained, “I must remove her heart and burn it with fire. I could not save her. You brought her to me too late.” She paused and looked up at him. “Better that you brought her to me than not have brought her at all, or else you, and perhaps your children—do you have children?”

He nodded silently.

“—And your children would have been her first meals tonight.”

“But—” he stuttered, “she loves— _loved_ —”

“ _Listen to me._ ” The Witch put down the scalpel. “If a vampire is not properly raised and taught by others, they do not know who they are. They live in the shadows, and their only thoughts are who will be their next meal. It does not matter who they once knew or loved. She contracted vampirism and a vampire she became. It is best that you brought her to me, lest she would have slaughtered your family—nay!—the entire town if she was given the chance.”

The man’s face twisted with confusion, and then frustration. “But you—! By the gods, she’s _dead!_ You killed my _wife!_ ”

“It was what I had to do!” the Witch exclaimed. The frustration began to boil inside her chest, hot and ugly. “To save the lives of others, to save your _own_ life, your _children’s_ lives! She wouldn’t have wanted to live as a vampire for the rest of her life, now would she?” An exhale hissed through her nostrils, and she pointed to a nearby water bucket and rag. “Clean yourself off. Go back home to your children. I will not argue any longer. Listen to my instructions carefully: inform your high priest and councilman of what occurred here tonight. Be discreet. Do not gossip about this. You will spread hysteria. When you bury her, instruct the priest and the gravediggers to make sure she is nailed into her coffin. Burning the heart should ensure she is dead, but it never hurts to be cautious.”

“You’re…” the man’s brow knit, scowl still on his face. “You’re lettin’ me bury her body? You’re not gonna…” his voice lowered as he spoke, “cut her up an’ take her parts and use ‘em…or…”

The Witch looked at him incredulously. “I’m not a madwoman,” the Witch said. “You and your family deserve to have something to mourn.”

The man fell silent after that. He quietly washed off his face before leaving as he came, trudging through nightfall.

\---

Cleanly carving a heart from a corpse takes an incredible amount of patience, and time. The Witch worked into the night until she reached the darkened organ. The hole in it yawned at her lazily. Ignoring the unsettling feeling it gave her, she grounded herself with the sawing _snip, snip, snip_ of her knife on the thicker veins and arteries, and finally, finally scooped it from its abode and placed it in a jar. Without ceremony, she murmured her incantations as she burned it, and did not leave until it was naught but ash.

The process filled her home with a vile smell, and, exhausted, she settled into her chair by the fireplace, burning a bundle of incense to help her relax. Her head fell back against the chair. And here she sat, with the heartless corpse of a peasant woman behind her. The fact that this did not strike her in the least bit alarming or unusual made her giggle a bit. Laughing over dead bodies on her table?

_Yes,_ she thought, _I am very tired._

And so she sat, staring at the fire that ate away at the wood, until the night wind that slipped through the open window caressed her into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witch is annoyed with all these damn visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No gore in this chapter! Enjoy :)

Ever since this… _incident,_ there had been too many people at her door as of late. First the peasant-man with his wife then repayment of a hand-knitted blanket and fresh glass jars (he was not foul about it, she would give him that much); then the high priest and gravediggers picking up the body (she and the high priest did _not_ exchange pleasantries under any circumstance; she was quite certain that if he had his way, she would not be living near the village, or living at all), and though it was only four people within the past two days, it was too much for her liking. There were tomes to be read! Ingredients to be gathered! And it seemed as if suddenly all of civilization’s purpose was to hinder her from living simply. _Insufferable_. The woman died, she did what she could, now why should they keep pestering her? _Nuisances,_ the lot of them all. She reflected upon this with distaste as she scrubbed the last of the blood from her floors and table.

One could imagine her expression of unbridled vexation when her door shuddered with a third knock—this one firm with intent, like those foolish brave-hearts that come to her home demanding she assist them with some Great Monstrous Evil. There were no such Great Monstrous Evils that she knew of in _her_ forest. No slippery kelpies, no bored incubi, no hungry chimeras, no tricky _loup-garous_ or maiden-stealing dragons, for spirits’ sake. (At this point, she was tempted to let them be eaten by whatever new monstrosity fabricated from thin air. Supernatural beasts were attracted to easy, stupid prey, and _that_ was no fault of _hers._ ) So what, pray tell, could _this_ idiot want?

Muttering under her breath, she strode briskly to the door and threw it open. “State your purpose for interrupting my afternoon—” she peered at the man that stood before her—tall, cleanly shaven, wore heavy chainmail with some sort of insignia on his breastplate, “—knight.”

The man looked her up and down once, sizing her up, and squinted at her skeptically. The Witch knew this was an expression he made regularly. _Great_ , she thought, one of _these_ types. Placing one hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip, he said, “You are the Witch of these woods?”

The Witch tried not to hex him on the spot. Self-restraint, she reminded herself, goes a long way. “You would not be at my door if you did not know who I was,” she replied tersely. “So I shall give you one more chance, because I am feeling nice.” (She wasn’t.) “State your purpose, _knight_.”

The knight clenched his jaw. “I am here to ask about the woman who was murdered two days ago.”

“ _Murdered?_ ” The Witch laughed. “Who have _you_ been getting your information from? That superstitious shrew of a high priest? Oh, Ser Hero the Heroic, do you think I _wanted_ to kill her?” She tutted. “I did not even know her name, and much less her face. Humor me for a moment, would you? Tell me what that skinny little snake tricked you into believing.”

“A peasant woman was brought to the doctors after getting the chills, and no remedies were working on her.” His voice was clipped, clearly annoyed with her mockery of his status. “Desperate, the husband brought her to _you_ , where you performed witchcraft—”

“Cleansing ritual,” she corrected, “but I doubt a man of religion would know the concept of cleanliness.” She smiled. “Continue.”

“—and transformed her into a vampire so you could have an excuse to kill her.”

The Witch’s eyebrows raised. “Is that what he is telling the lay people these days? My, what a poorly plotted tale. Did I mention that I did not even know the woman? I kill for good reason, _not_ in cold blood—” she met his hard eyes, “—as I am sure you are familiar with, knight.”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The Witch grinned with delight. “Now,” she said, “might I correct you again: the ‘chills’ that she had were the symptoms of _contracting_ vampirism. She transformed on my very table. It was too late for her. I had to kill her or else she would have spread the disease to the entire town…or have killed them all, or ran unrestrained in the wilderness…” He opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a silencing hand. “I owe you no proof, knight. I do not know why you want to know about this death. Nor do I care. But you have your information. So if you could please see yourself off my doorstep—”

The Witch found herself at sword-point. Ah. He did not believe her. What a pity. She looked at his face—handsome, sure, but ugly with that look a spoiled brat gets when they do not immediately receive what they whine for. Magic tingled at her fingertips. A shame that she would have to mess up that pretty, pretty face—

“Jack, you imbecile. Put your sword away.” A lithe woman emerged from the foliage, bow and quiver on her back. She did not wear the heavy armor that this knight did, but her leather chestpiece bore the same circular insignia. An organization? Mercenary group? Guild? Or just soldiers? The Witch was curious, now—she would probably regret it later—and cut the magical energies from her hands. “If you had any sense in that blond head of yours, you would have asked the husband for the story, too, not just the high priest.”

“Ser Hero the Heroic’s child-minder, I see.” The Witch smirked. “Best be grateful for her, knight, else you would have been a pile of ash at my door.”

Gritting his teeth, the knight—Jack—reluctantly sheathed his weapon. “She. Is. _Not._ My _child-minder_ ,” he growled.

“Ha!” the woman barked. “Yes I am, pretty boy.” The Witch laughed along with her, and wondered where she was from. She hailed from one of the warmer lands—her darker skin and odd accent said as much—and it was not oft that faraway strangers came to a little town in Westmoor. The woman pushed Jack out of the way and offered her hand. “Ana Amari, archer of the Sha’aim. I apologize for my friend. He is more suspicious than not most of the time.”

The Witch had heard of the Sha’aim. From stories she knew, heat scorched the land dry, and great golden mountains moved with the wind. A wide river cleaved the land in two and flooded it with life. The Sha’aim people were scholarly, resourceful, and something to be reckoned with.

“He should change that habit,” the Witch commented thoughtfully. “It is a miracle he has made so many foes and not yet tasted any of their blades.”

“I _am_ right here, you know,” Jack snapped.

Archer Amari ignored him. “I have never been called a miracle before. I thank you for your flattery, but surely, it is not necessary.”

Laughter erupted from the Witch. “Please,” she stepped to the side and opened the door wider, “come in. I think I have some spare herbs for some tea, if you would like, and we can talk more about this vampire incident your organization is so worried about.”

Archer Amari stepped in, and the Witch turned and closed the door just as Jack began marching towards it again.

\---

Archer Amari took a seat at the Witch’s table, and did not mind the bloodstains. It was refreshing to have someone in her home that did not ask incredulous questions like _what body parts do you keep in those jars?_ or _have you possessed anybody?_ or _to what demon did you sell your soul to acquire magic?_ Granted, those ridiculous notions were the key to keeping civilization from getting too friendly with her, but a respectful outsider was a rarity that the Witch, as much as she relished her solitude, did not pass up.

While the Witch brewed the tea, Ana did not hesitate on explaining what Jack failed to intimidate her into. Witty _and_ straight to the point. Pleasant.

“Jack and I are part of a vampire hunting guild called The Overwatch,” she began. “Our goal is twofold: one, keep the disease manageable, and two, keep it from spreading into areas where it shouldn’t.”

The Witch’s interest was piqued, now. “So vampirism needs to be controlled, but not destroyed? The usual vampire hunting groups I hear of just want to eradicate the disease entirely.”

“There is…debate on that topic within our own guild, I will not lie.”

“Mmm.” The Witch looked over at Amari. “And where do you stand on that?”

“I thought you would want to know of Jack, first.”

The Witch smiled. “I already can tell where _he_ stands on the matter.”

Archer Amari nodded. “To destroy vampirism in its entirety is nigh impossible,” she said. “It is not a practical goal. Management is easier than eradication.”

“And what of mercy?”

“Towards vampires?”

The Witch brought two steaming cups over, and handed one to Amari. “No. Too general. Towards vampires that did not become vampires willingly, and are not feral.”

“That is always a tough question,” Amari sighed. “But there is no known cure. It is only best to put them out of their misery. They most likely do not want to live like that.”

The Witch peered at her, and for the first time, noticed a unique tattoo just below her eye. “Have you ever asked?”

Archer Amari tightened her lips into a line, and sipped her tea.

“I know, it is always hard for the heroic vigilantes of the world to navigate the tumultuous, morally ambiguous sea. It would be so much easier for things to be either one side of a coin or another. Heads means kill, tails means spare.” The Witch smiled. “But I apologize. I find too much delight when I am given the opportunity to pick the brain of a hero that actually sits with me at my table instead of demanding supplies before charging off to slay some great beast or another. Tell me…what is it you want from me?”

Amari, looking slightly relieved, began, “We track vampire attacks all throughout Westmoor. When a scout of ours heard of the events that transpired here, we came to investigate. It seems someone was sloppy about keeping their fodder clean.” She took another sip of her tea. “We have evidence that suggests vampires are attempting to gain political power.”

“Ah, an arena in which vampirism certainly does not belong. Though,” the Witch grinned, “from what I have heard, I have the right to believe that most nobility act like vampires anyway, sucking their people dry through harsh rule. What is the difference? And why does it concern me?”

“I cannot disclose the intricacies, not until I know I can trust you.” Amari set her cup down and leaned in. “We have all the information and resources at our disposal, but no solid means to combat it. Sword and arrow cannot fight something we cannot prove to the public.”

“Because outright assassination is never an option?” the Witch asked. “Or because it is a path you are not willing to take?”

She took a deep breath. “We’ve tried. Once or twice. But they just fill in the spot like before. Cut one head off a hydra, two more grow back. We cannot find the source.”

“And so you hear about an attack in a relatively remote village, stumble upon a knowledgeable Witch of the Wood by happenstance, and see her as the perfect resource to find the heart of your little problem.”

Amari’s gaze sharpened dangerously. “This problem is not _little_ , nor is it exclusively _ours._ It _can_ and _will_ be yours too, if it remains unchecked.”

The Witch considered this, and nodded. “This all sounds very grave,” she said lightly, “but you do know that calling upon the assistance of a witch requires repayment.”

“Now _that_ I know.” Ana dug into a satchel at her hip and pulled out a few pages of parchment, and slid it over to the Witch. “This is just a fraction of what we can offer you.”

The Witch picked up the parchments and scanned them. Various foreign herbs and their stock amounts were listed. Beneath that, a multitude of drawings of beast trophies—teeth, claws, eyes, spines—were drawn in detail and described in an alchemical context. On the subsequent pages, a non-comprehensive list of tomes and spellbooks she had never read before.

“Magic-users seek one thing the most,” Archer Amari explained, “and that is knowledge. In exchange for your help, we will let you explore nearly any arena of magic you desire. We have the capability for you to delve into almost anything. And if there is something that we do not have,” she continued, “we can get it for you.”

The Witch narrowed her eyes. “‘Nearly’? ‘Almost’?”

“Demon-summoning makes Jack squirm.”

“Though that _has_ been an avenue I have considered, demons are tricky beings, and the success rate of one dealing with them without either being mutilated or killed entirely is…discouraging, to say the least.” The Witch chuckled to herself. “I think I can live without pursuing that, if that is my only restraint.”

Amari nodded grimly in agreement.

The Witch looked over the papers again. Amari knew what she was doing, for sure—wizards and witches _did_ desire knowledge. The very thought of working with rare ingredients or studying new techniques excited her, she would admit. But all excitement must be tempered with caution. Impulse was a dangerous thing that gave short-term satisfaction upfront and long-term problems later down the road. She looked back up at Archer Amari, who stared at her intently, waiting for an answer. “Let me think about it,” she finally said. “It is not every day that I get an elite vampire hunting guild at my doorstep with a proposition such as _this—_ ” she gestured to the parchment, “—but you do make a convincing argument, Archer Amari of the Sha’aim. Will three days suffice before I give my answer?”

“That is fine.” (The Witch nearly chuckled to herself. She would have made it three days whether Archer Amari liked it or not.) She rose from her seat. “Thank you for being willing to speak with me.”

“Thank you for not putting me at sword-point,” the Witch responded, and they both laughed.

Once they left (and she finally managed to stop laughing at Jack’s obscene shouting over Amari letting the door close in his face, and _“she could have poisoned you, damn it!”_ ), the Witch returned to scrubbing the blood from her floors.

It had been a while since she had been out of this little hut…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No gore warning. Today we meet the lovely Countess Lacroix. Enjoy. :D

The Witch had to admit, a change of scenery _was_ nice.

They were to head north of the little village for about a day or so, then would arrive at their destination—a fortress of some sort, was all the Witch could gather—by nightfall. Travelling through the forest ended up being more relaxing than she had thought; despite Morrison’s metal boots breaking every twig that dared challenge him, the Witch enjoyed the sunlight filtering through the trees, the tittering of the birds, and the occasional opportunity to gather ingredients that she stowed away in her satchel.

Morrison peered at her suspiciously each time she veered away from their group to do so. She ignored him. Annoying, yes, but unbearable? Mmm. He had yet to truly test her patience.

When she wasn’t scouting ahead (she was much quieter than Ser Morrison, thank the gods), Amari made Morrison’s presence bearable. Most of the time, as she and the Witch had pleasant conversation, while Morrison settled for marching forward to keep an eye out.

Amari watched him dutifully—but with a sort of brooding air about him—lead the way a few yards ahead. She sighed. “He is…good, you know.”

The Witch raised a brow.

“It just takes Jack a while to trust people he does not know.”

“All are with their flaws, I suppose,” the Witch remarked. “What are strengths for some are weaknesses for others.”

“Sometimes I think he has forgotten how _not_ to be a commander.” Morrison continued to plow forward with brute efficiency. Amari watched him with a sadness in her eyes. “The military has taken much from him.”

The Witch hummed. “More than war?”

Amari kept her eyes locked forward, and her jaw locked with it. “Two heads of the same monster.”

The Witch considered her next words carefully. “And what of you, Archer Amari of the Sha’aim? Why are you not the directed, narrow-minded commander, cutting down those that stand before you?”

A twig snapped under Ser Morrison’s boot.

“I still have a home,” she answered quietly, yet sternly. “I refused to let the military consume me.”

“Oh? Does Ser Morrison hail from no manor, unlike you, hailing from the Sha’aim? He is a knight, after all, and last I recall, knights require _some_ form of status to even be considered for apprenticeship.”

Amari’s gaze grew distant. “A land is not the only thing that makes a home.”

They walked together in silence for a long time. Morrison seemed not to notice, driving forward with even, paced constancy. And just for a moment—just for a moment—Amari’s words stirred unsightly things centuries past from their slumber, things that she had long since left in the dark. The Witch knew she oughtn’t entertain whatever beasts now rustled in the shadows. But this couldn’t be helped. Or so she told herself. What if she lit a candle, and found the mighty, horrible things still deep in eternal sleep? Would it hurt to check?

The Witch’s gaze drifted around to Morrison. A man with no home. She snuck a glance at Amari, but she was lost in thought; and for a moment, she felt akin to her, as these dark beasts from centuries past shifted in their sleep. Would it hurt to check?

A twig snapped under Ser Morrison’s boot.

“And what of you, mysterious Witch of the Wood?” Amari asked quietly, out of her reverie. “Why do you refuse the company of those that come to your door, and push away those who enter?”

 _A land is not the only thing that makes a home,_ Amari had said, but those beasts countered, even in their slumber,

_A land is the only thing left._

She could not deny their truth. She looked at Amari, then Morrison, then Amari. They passed a puddle, somehow miraculously undisturbed by Ser Morrison’s plodding, and in it she caught her own reflection, like one snatches an insect from midair. The woman she saw was cool and reserved, but behind it something ugly began taking shape. She stomped it down.

A twig snapped under Ser Morrison’s boot.

Amari’s question hung like a mirror between them, waiting to be shattered. She looked at Morrison. She was not like _him_.

What was Amari trying to insinuate?

“Parroting does not become you, Archer Amari,” she said coolly, though she could barely sheathe the blade under her tongue. “I think I expected more.”

Amari only looked at her for a moment, then locked her eyes back to the road ahead. “I think I did as well.”

\---

This, _this_ was why she did not get herself entangled in such squabbles over _man_ versus _monster_. She did not care for the petty conflicts between companions. All she cared about was _cause_ and _effect._

There was a problem, and _this_ was how they were going to solve it.

Ser Morrison and Archer Amari refused to agree. This seemed like a recurring problem that the Witch might have to solve _herself._

“I am telling you, Jack, we _have_ to go to the Count. We need to see the state of their court before we get ahead of ourselves.”

“And I am telling _you_ ,” Ser Morrison growled, “that we _have_ to go to Wilhelm for aid first. We need reinforcements. Have you seen our numbers? They are wearing thin. We need all the able hands we can get. God! If you were not so _vehement_ against the idea of your dau—”

“Do. _Not_.”

“You refuse to face reality, Ana!”

Amari gaped at him. “ _I_ refuse to face reality? _You_ are the one who wants to cut down everyone that stands in your way! Am I not the one always telling _you_ that you are still chasing some empty promise of glory that the Legion baited you with all those years ago?”

“You can tell each other all you want all day, but without some sense in this conversation you both will bloody your tongues with all your fighting.” The Witch pointed at Ser Morrison. “ _You_ think we need to get troops. Whether we are _actually_ spread thin I have no _sodding_ idea, but Amari, I am certain you have enough sense to make a call on that.” She whirled to Amari and jabbed a finger in her direction. “And _you_ think we need to go see the bloody Count, whoever _that_ is, but I am sure, Ser Morrison, that you have enough sense to comprehend the importance of this. Now,” she pinched her nose and inhaled slowly, “discuss.”

Amari and Morrison looked at each other with narrowed eyes for a moment.

“If you cannot see the _importance_ —”

“Really, because all I see is your _idiotic—_ ”

Groaning, the Witch made a quick gesture with her hand. A root snaked up from the ground and hooked itself around their ankles, and they both collided face-first on the ground with a loud _oomph._

“Both of you were giving me a headache with your squawking. It feels like a giant has hit me in the head with a club.” The Witch rubbed her temple in exasperation. “We move no further until you reach a decision.”

The look on Ser Morrison’s face almost made up for everything before. “How _dare—_ ” he spit some dirt out of his mouth, “—you can’t do this!”

The Witch cocked her head and gestured to both of them still on the ground. “I am doing it right now.” She watched amusedly as Ser Morrison withdrew his sword and tried cutting at the root, but even a knight’s blade could not pierce the bark.

“Enchanted,” she explained. “I knew neither of you would like this very much.”

Ser Morrison glared at Amari, but Amari just stared dead at the Witch, looking about ready for murder.

“Oh, do not look so displeased, Archer Amari. Surely a noble warrior of the Sha’aim has been through much, much worse.”

Amari’s jaw clenched. “This is something close to it.”

“You surely jest,” Ser Morrison deadpanned.

“Now children, behave,” the Witch scolded. “The naughty ones get thrown in my pot…or so that is what the locals say.” She strolled over to an old stump some ways away and sat cheerfully, ignoring the angry shouts from Morrison and the death glare from Amari. She pulled out her satchel, some ingredients, a few small flasks, and began making poultices. What perfect timing! She was running low, and if Morrison managed to snag his hand on bramble one more time, she would’ve just had to let it get infected.

Three poultices later and Ser Morrison was shouting at her, not Amari, so that meant something had been decided. Hopefully. Sighing, the Witch packed her things and headed over. Morrison was red in the face, but seemed to be cooling down. Amari looked about ready to strangle her.

The Witch smiled. “Are we done squabbling?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Amari ground out.

“Well?” The Witch prompted. “Out with it, then.”

“Free us, first,” Morrison added, “we would like to continue walking while we tell you.”

She supposed she didn’t have much of a choice at this rate. The sun was beginning to set, and they needed to get to the fortress before nightfall, and by dawn at the latest. “Very well,” she replied, and commanded the roots to return to the ground.

Morrison brushed himself off. Amari still looked like she fancied to kill her.

“ _First_ of all,” Amari snapped, “ _never_ pull a stunt like that again. You wasted time.”

“You both would have wasted time when we reached your little fortress,” the Witch pointed out. “It was either resolve it here and now or endure your bickering all the way there, and then keep enduring it as you trade blows on what is the best plan of action. And I did not want this headache encroaching any further than it already has.”

“It does not _matter_. That was foolish. We are in this,” Amari gestured to the three of them, “as a _team._ That was crossing the line.”

“Was it, Archer Amari? Neither of you were putting forth any effort to figure out what you needed to do. You two just hissed and yowled at each other like wild cats. That does not seem like a _‘team’_ to me.” The Witch put up a halting hand to Amari’s protest. “No. I do not want to hear anything from you. Hypocrites. _Both_ of you. Tell me the plan when we get there.”

Amari and Morrison trudged on in silence, exchanging glares. Moping and brooding was better than shouting, at least. It was easier on her head. The Witch inhaled a steadying breath and walked on.

She just had to make it to their headquarters. Then she could work on her studies in peace without this riot.

\---

Two days later, the renowned Witch of the Wood was not working on her studies in peace.

It would be an understatement to say that she was dissatisfied. She very well _could_ voice her displeasure here and now, preferably with balls of fire being flung from her hand and towards Ser Morrison, but he was days away in the Stone Lands, consulting General Wilhelm on receiving reinforcements.

She supposed her nearest, second-best option to turn into a pile of ash was Archer Amari, since this had been partly her doing, but despite their disagreements the Witch was still fonder of her than she was of Ser Morrison, and by the spirits she would _not_ want to be left alone with Ser Morrison. She also supposed, as she tried another sip of (apparently) expensive wine and attempted to refrain from looking noticeably repulsed by its flavor, that expressing her annoyance would give the Count a poor impression of their guild.

That is, the Witch assumed that it was still in poor taste in civilized life to set party guests on fire, which would most likely terminate the Overwatch’s agreement with her.

The renowned Witch of the Wood brooded over her disgusting wine and tried to focus on getting comfortable in the absurd _thing_ Morrison said she had to wear. Two representatives of the Overwatch, Ser Morrison explained, looked better than sending just one—which was what brought on his and Amari’s argument earlier. Their _new_ plan brought on arguing between she and him (Amari had to physically intervene) once she saw the dress.

This… _frivolous_ thing. Gold-embroidered, sure, but the layers of black velvet made her feel like Atlas, but instead of holding the weight of the World, she held the weight of ridiculous social convention. She eyed the men in functional pants, shirt, and tie, and hoped that her envy for their privilege of simple mobility was not mistaken for _other_ intentions.

“Having a good time?” Amari asked, swirling her wine in her glass.

“I will never understand what you call ‘civilized’,” the Witch muttered. “This—all of this—” she gestured to the extravagant ballroom with sparkling chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, “—it is superfluous.”

Amari chuckled. She seemed content in getting her revenge for the Witch’s earlier stunt. “I will take that as a yes.”

“And this _dress,_ ” the Witch scowled, “must be four times my weight. I feel like some lumbering ox in a…what is it that those dancers wear? A tu-tu.”

Amari sputtered, just barely managing to swallow her wine. “Well,” she laughed as she cleared her throat, “we civilized folk suffer by choice, at least.”

The Witch adjusted some fabric around her corset. Her scowl deepened. “And it seems that _I_ do not get that luxury.”

“As much as I would like to make fun of you more, we have important company.” She nodded towards the supposed _Comte Lacroix,_ Count Lacroix, a brave, honorable man with close ties to the King. The Witch was not expecting him to be so…tolerably handsome, with sleek, dark hair and a cleanly trimmed beard to frame his square, firm face. His stern eyes softened and lit up when he spotted Amari.

“Lady Ana!” His voice boomed over the din of the ball. “It has been too long.”

“Did I not tell you, enough with the titles! It is just Ana, please, Gérard.” She placed her wine on a servant’s tray coming ‘round by wait-foot, and with both hands free embraced him in a hug. “Been bashing your enemies with your greatsword while I was gone?”

“Finally, only because you would pick them off with your arrow before I could ever try to swing!” He threw his head back and laughed. “But the old days are behind us. What brings you here?”

Amari stepped back and placed a hand on the Witch’s shoulder. “First I must introduce my companion for tonight. This is…”

She fell silent, and the Witch read the look on her face. She hadn’t learned the Witch’s name. All and fine, as the Witch did not oft give her name to strangers, and though they had travelled together, Amari was, by all means, still a stranger. She certainly was not about to give it to this even stranger man, this…Gérard Lacroix.

But did civilized social convention command it? Perhaps. Did the Witch ever care for civil social convention?

She remembered her dress.

“I am one Witch of the Wood in Westmoor. I gave up my name long ago. Names do not matter to me.”

She never cared much.

Lacroix’s eyebrows shot up. “You bring a Witch to my ball, Ana?”

Expected. “Afraid I might turn walking-canes to snakes, or, perhaps your party guests into frogs?”

“No, I—” Count Lacroix sighed. “I apologize. I meant no offense. I know Ana must always be in good company whenever she visits. I have not spoken to a magic-wielder since the war, and I fought with sorcerers and sorceresses, those who have…formal education. Witches are few and far between, and even fewer come to functions as these. I was only surprised.”

“Well, then. I appreciate your concern.” (Or whatever it is they said to such rambling excuses that veiled fear and unfamiliarity.) “Shall we get on to business, Archer Amari?”

Amari’s heavily relief showed. “Yes. Gérard, we must discuss something urgent. Can we go somewhere more private?”

“Of course. Follow me.” He began to lead them off to the side, but Amari stopped him. “She must stay here. There are details I have not disclosed to her yet and I would not like to start now.”

The Witch gave Amari an incredulous look. “You could not have informed me sooner?”

“We did not have the time, and you have not been here long enough. Apologies.” (Amari didn’t look it.)

Count Lacroix shifted uncomfortably on his feet at the increasingly tense situation. “Ah, Miss…Witch. Perhaps you can meet my wife? She is not oft one scared by outsiders—I mean, ah, visitors—and she tires of these parties, as do you, I assume? Ah, I mean, I do not mean to assume—I mean, she would benefit from seeing a fresh face, I think.”

Amari sighed and shook her head. “Might as well show her who she is, Gérard, if she ever entertains the idea before she throws herself off the balcony from boredom.”

The Witch glared at Amari. “We Witches _are_ known for performing outrageous antics when inconvenienced.”

“Oh…ah, yes.” Count Lacroix pointed off to the other side of the ballroom, to a tall, lithe woman in a deep purple dress chatting with some other noble-looking (but not _noble_ -looking) women. “That would be her. Her name is Amélie.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” the Witch replied. She was by no means grateful, but it was something to do. “Off with you then, Amari. Go discuss politics and danger with your old wardog.”

Amari shot her one last dirty look before heading off with Count Lacroix. She was sure Amari was dumping apologies for the Witch’s behavior already. She hoped so. Leaving her high and dry here…what was that about _“teamwork”_ Amari was bitching about a few days ago? Hmm. She couldn’t remember.

Either way, she had no idea how long her and Count Lacroix’s discussion would take…and unfortunately to the Witch, Amari was right: she had two options. One, go to the balcony, sit in a corner, and enjoy the scenery for as long as she was able. Two, talk to the Countess Lacroix, and on the off-chance she made decent conversation, survive the night with at least _some_ intelligent stimulation. She threw a glance at the Countess Lacroix, tall and reserved in her laughter, wearing her extravagant, flowing dress like a second skin, and the wide, welcoming balcony double-doors.

She bolted to the double-doors as socially appropriately as possible.

The fresh air brought her some respite. The view, she had to admit, was stunning: the castle of the Count Lacroix overlooked the Nual River and many clustered villages, houses twinkling like stars. The great reaches of the forest embraced them, trusting and warm. Despite the constraints of the corset, she breathed in, pushing away the alcohol and heavy perfume of the ballroom in favor of the smells of the wild night. She tried to pick up the distinct odor of the water of the river turning over the dirt from the edges of the bank. The sweetness of the flowering trees in bloom. Damp oak and pine, bleeding sap after a recent rain, faint on the gentle wind.

She finally began to relax. She missed the wilds already. How could people live like this, trapped in towering walls of stone?

“Beautiful night isn’t it, _non?_ ”

The Witch startled, and magic tingled at her fingertips before she remembered where she was, and dispelled it. She turned to the interloper, the one intruding on her conversation.

Surprisingly, it was the Countess Amélie Lacroix, standing a little ways beside her, leaning on the railing with her arms folded. “This is my favorite place to escape, too, when the party becomes dull.”

“I _have_ escaped for a reason,” the Witch pointed out. She could not quite get a read on this Countess Amélie Lacroix. She was confident, for sure, but she relaxed into it, like one would relax into a glass of wine and a book. And she stood out against her counterparts—while the rest of the women wore their hair in seemingly impossible configurations, the Countess wore hers up in a simple bun with only a few strands loose around one side of her face. She cared little about the status quo, or social convention, or whatever it was, from what the Witch could tell, but her intent was harder to discern.

Countess Lacroix chuckled. Her smile was small, but mischievous. “It seems that is something we have in common. What is it they say…misery loves company?”

Point proven. The Countess seemed agreeable enough, and certainly cleverer than what she had overheard from other conversations. Perhaps this would not be so bad. And if all she wanted to do was to talk to pass the time…

Mmm. No. There had to be something more to it than _that._ The Witch. would entertain her, for now.

“Seeing as we are both miserable and in each other’s company,” Countess Lacroix said, “might I ask a question?”

“I don’t see why not,” the Witch answered.

“Why do you wear your hair down so?”

The Witch gave her a look. “Because I like it that way.” Something was wrong with her hair. Social convention. Again. And since Amari had ensured this was all put together perfectly so she could assimilate as easily as she could into the ballroom environment, this was probably her fault.

“I see.” The Countess looked her up and down once, and then smiled. Something about it was cryptic. “It agrees with you.”

Again, to the Witch’s surprise, that did not sound sarcastic. A genuine compliment for defying whatever social norm she just broke? From the Countess, no less?

“Why are you really here?” the Witch asked, eyes narrowed.

The Countess hummed, and turned so that her back was leaning against the railing. “Black is not a common color worn to a lively dance party. Are you in mourning?”

Nosy, but typical of a noble. “No. You’ve avoided my question.”

“So,” the Countess continued, “I suppose you are wearing it simply because you like it.”

Where was she getting at with this? She would love to discuss something more than just the superficial. “Yes. That is the second time you have avoided my question.”

“Oh, I am aware.”

Bold. The Witch raised her eyebrows. “Rude, but straightforward. Something I can appreciate.”

“I can…appreciate a woman who does not let the whims of society dictate her, as well.” The Countess’s voice was thick with something the Witch could not quite touch on. “As much as you try to hide it, you do stick out in a crowd.”

This was getting interesting. The Witch turned a bit to her. “As do you.”

“And what about me caught your eye, exactly?”

Everything clicked. The Witch’s eyes widened slightly, but the Countess played coy, keeping her expression innocent, attentive. Sod whatever Amari and Count Lacroix were talking about behind closed doors. _This—_ the hint of fire behind the Countess’s eyes, the way her hips were cocked slightly—had they turned to completely face each other? the Witch hadn’t noticed—the slight, daring quirk of the corner of her full lips— _this_ was dangerous.

And if a few of the party guests saw the composed, refined Countess Amélie Lacroix philandering with the _outsider_ , the _Witch,_ as some had overheard, how bad would that be? As long as she didn’t end up in her bed, she wouldn’t mind playing this game. Either way, Amari deserved a little bit of strife for making her a fool in front of these people without her knowing.

(But how much did the Witch care? Many already thought her some batty heretic with a fancy sacrificing children. In earnest: not much, but she wanted an excuse to have a little spite. Call it petty, if you’d like.)

 _Besides_ , she thought as she looked the Countess Amélie Lacroix up and down, making her intentions known, _it had been so long since she last danced with danger._

The Witch offered the Countess a gloved hand, and gestured to the dance floor. “I prefer to show rather than tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wait-foot: a made-up term for a waiter/waitress or someone running around with a silver platter, serving guests
> 
> *wearing the hair down back in the day generally indicated that a woman was a prostitute
> 
> *full black was generally worn exclusively for mourning by women
> 
> ANYWAY IM A HOMOSEXUAL FOR THIS SNEAKY MINX-Y COUNTESS AMELIE LACROIX
> 
> please tell me your thoughts i need to know if i did well with her bc i think i wanna continue this characterization


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The naughty children get a back-to-back update.
> 
> THE RATING HAS CHANGED AS OF THIS CHAPTER. Y'all know why.
> 
> For those who are curious, the Witch and the Countess waltz to something of the likes of Dmitri Shostakovich's _Waltz No. 2_. I would highly suggest listening to it during the dance sequence.
> 
> UPDATE: the wonderful and magical dinochoobs has created fanart for this chapter!! please give her the love and attention she deserves - https://dinochoobs.tumblr.com/post/159003296939/happy-b-day-gallantly-dreaming-3-from-their

The orchestra strung an energetic waltz that the Witch and the Countess slipped into. The rest of the guests were too occupied with their partners to notice their late arrival, and so the Witch, feeling confident and sly, snuck a hand to rest on the Countess’s lower back.

“Leading me in my own Court?” the Countess asked, arching a brow.

“You asked me what it was that caught my eye,” the Witch answered. She pulled her in closer, till they were touching. “You will follow as I show you.”

The Witch was not so out of touch with the world as to not know how to dance. The waltz was essential in flirtation, when one held their partner close as they glided across the floor, like the smooth stroke of a pen on parchment. _One, two, three,_

The Witch leaned towards the Countess so they were cheek-to-cheek. “Do you see the way that you move through them, cutting through the world like a knife? And yet you do it with such elegance…”

_One, two, three,_

“…but though many see you as a flower—” the Witch tightened her grip slightly in both hands, “—you are a _lion_ among men.”

“And you have not even heard me roar,” the Countess chuckled in her ear.

“I thought pretty little ladies held in high status did not do such unsightly things as _scream,_ ” said the Witch. They whirled ‘round again. _One, two, three,_

“On occasion I fail to bite my tongue.”

“Well then,” the Witch dipped the Countess, allowing a spectacular view of her chest and neck. She drew her back up and pressed her lips close to her ear. “It looks like I might have to bite it for you.”

The Countess’s breath hitched—she felt it against her chest. _Delicious._ Something inside the Witch told her she was indulging in this little game a bit _too_ much, but all her time spent was in her hut deep in the forest nowadays—when was the last time she was given such a fruitful opportunity?

When was the last time anyone had seen her as desirable?

_One, two, three,_

“Tell me what other things you’d fancy biting.”

The Witch swallowed, and inhaled a shuddering breath. How _titillating_ she forgot this was! Was she going to do this right here, risking being overheard by others? And when would Amari be finished with the Count? Would he see her dancing sensually with his wife?

Of course, none of that mattered, and mattered all at once. What mattered the most, however, was how coy she was going to be. _One, two, three,_

“I thought you wanted to hear about what caught my eye, _Comtesse._ ”

The Countess exhaled a warm puff of air against her cheek. “I figured _that_ and your answer to my last question would be one in the same.”

They stopped, and the Witch dipped her again. “If you think I was only attracted to your neck and breasts,” she pulled the Countess back up, “am I really better than any dog of a man in this room who would like to do the same?”

“The difference is—” it was then the Countess’s lips grazed dangerously from her ear, across her cheek, and then near the Witch’s mouth, and all the Witch could feel was the burning path that the Countess’s lips had left, and the thickness of tension in the very, _very_ small space between them, “—I am not attracted to those men.”

_One, two, three,_

“Not even to your husband?”

“Allow me to put it this way,” said the Countess, “Gérard has not made me scream _once_ in the thousand times he has touched me in the way I imagine only _one_ touch of yours would.”

The Witch’s eyes fluttered, and she almost stumbled through their seamless waltz. _Damn this woman._ The Countess made it harder and harder for her each breathing second to fight against the urge to drag her to some dark corner and prove to her just how many times she _could_ make her scream, to make up for all the times the Count could not. But the Overwatch. Amari. Morrison. The potential of expanding her knowledge. She could not allow herself to throw that away for one foolish choice.

“Though I hear,” the Witch said, “that Witches of the Wood make those caught in their webs scream in a very _different_ way.”

But the Countess only laughed. “I dance with a Witch? I am in luck. Could you perchance turn my husband to a toad, so that I am free to be put under your spell?”

The Witch could scarcely believe it. The Countess was _insatiable_. “And you do not wonder how a Witch of the Wood has found her way into your Hall?”

“And _you_ do not think that I did not see you with Ana Amari and my husband? Oh, _cherie,_ ” she purred, “I have been watching you from the start.”

The orchestra began building to a final crescendo, and while the Witch contemplated the fact that the Countess’s eyes had been on _her_ all along, they spun, and they spun, and they spun, _one-two-three, one-two-three,_ the strings began to curl in a finishing flourish, _one-two-three,_

The Witch stopped and let the Countess tip all the way back into a deep dip, and she was content with staying a safe distance away, for now, but the Countess pulled her along forcefully, so that their foreheads and noses touched and the Countess’s hot breath ghosted her lips and _damn_ this woman, just _daring_ her to pursue—

“Left hall, four doors down, brass handle on the right,” the Countess whispered. “Meet me there in ten minutes if you are intent on keeping your promise of showing me what exactly it was that caught your eye.”

_Sodding…_

The ballroom erupted with applause, and the orchestra began an intermission tune. The Countess smiled, curtseyed, and melted with the rest of the crowd. Out of breath, the Witch stood alone in the crowd.

And out of patience. Somehow the Witch found herself nursing one of those disgusting wine glasses again, squinting over the rim as she bounced back and forth on what to do.

The Countess was definitely more than met the eye. Not some whining, shallow bitch in heat that just wanted to get under her dress. She was cunning, intelligent, playful. Not to mention attractive. Gods, was she _ever_ fine _._ The Witch closed her eyes and there the Countess was before her, her sharp face mischievous as ever; dark, long hair gleaming in the candlelight; bare neck, shoulders, and chest inviting her to—

Amari. Morrison. Overwatch. She scowled into her glass. She could pass up tonight and have the experience of a lifetime with a near endless supply of any ingredient she desired. She could finally delve more into her non-demonic conjuration studies, with enough room and rare items for higher-level summoning circles, among a countless number of other things she had been meaning to explore.

She tutted. How interesting that her moral quandary was not over adultery, but over being able to fool about with an interesting woman versus being able to pursue her studies. Not to mention that Amari could finish at any moment and search for her if she wasn’t present. That would be an issue.

And lest she forget the puzzle that was the Countess’s _intentions._ And not the ones that were obvious—there had to be more behind it than just the desire for a quick fuck. The Countess didn’t seem the type. Was there a way for the Witch to figure everything out, or, at least, get a grasp on her intentions, while slipping undetected by the Count and Amari?

_I have been watching you from the start._

The Witch glanced at the large clock on the opposite wall. She had only minutes to decide. The Countess.

Her studies.

The Countess.

Her studies.

Two minutes. The Witch briefly calculated the chances of this going completely wrong. The Count and Amari had been gone for about half an hour. She doubted it would take them much longer before they came looking for her. The question was, could the Witch see the Countess, determine her intentions, and be done in time before the Count and Amari were finished?

The Witch was never one to turn down an opportunity to test her skills.

She placed the wine down on a passing wait-foot tray and, as calmly as she could, as to not attract attention, made her way to the left hall, four doors down. Brass handle on the right. The din of the ballroom was but a distant muffle now, background chatter as the Witch put one hand on the handle, and slowly opened the door.

The Countess, still fully clothed, stood with her back to the door, gazing out a window. “I was wondering when you would finally make up your mind,” she said. “I thought with our _tête-á-tête_ I would have had you all but right behind me.”

Not feeling like (nor trusting, for that matter) explaining her quandary, the Witch silently swept across the dimly-lit, empty sitting-room and fully pressed herself against the back of the Countess. “I am _‘all but right behind you_ ’ now,” she whispered, “isn’t that all that matters?”

The Countess pressed back into her and hummed. “You’re hiding something, _cherie._ ”

The Witch’s arms snaked around the Countess’s waist, and she pressed her lips against her smooth, bare neck. The sound the Countess made was heavenly. “Aren’t you as well? Why would the faithfully wed _Comtesse Lacroix_ want to flirt with a dangerous stranger in her Court?”

“Any woman who can reduce my husband to a stuttering fool has my attention.”

“But is that really all there is to it?” Her hands crept up, up, up, over her stomach and hovered dangerously close to her breasts. “A stranger enters your Hall—a Witch, no less!—and the first thing you want to do is break your vows and fuck her senseless?” She squeezed roughly, eliciting a gasp from the Countess. “Is that all you are? Some bitch in heat desperate for the touch of someone other than her husband?

“Or do you strive to have an infamous Witch of the Wood in your pocket, so you can pull her out and show her off to your friends, so that you can announce with all haught and bombast, ‘ _I_ have the Witch of Westmoor wrapped around my finger with nothing more than the power of my dripping…” one hand slithered down, “…wet…” splayed flat against the Countess’s abdomen, “… _cunt_.’

“Because I can _assure_ you,” she hissed, tilting her fingers downward, “I refuse to be leashed like some _dog._ ”

The Countess was shamelessly panting now, but she managed her way through their conversation. “And yet I am leashed by this wedding ring. Breaking it is my only way to taste freedom, if only for one night.” She reached behind her, turned her head so their lips were brushing. “Do you not see it, _cherie?_ A beautiful stranger enters my Hall, who unabashedly lets the night cling to her body like a lover and lets her hair flow freely without a care, and I know that _she_ is the key.”

The Witch refused to give in, though they breathed the same air. “I am just a means to an end for you, then?”

A chuckle bubbled from low in the Countess’s throat. It vibrated against the Witch’s lips. “And here I thought all Witches were familiar with Machiavellian morals, though they avoid princes unless they are a price demanded unto them from some desperate mother. Aren’t _I_ a means to an end to you as well? Nothing more than raw, adulterous pleasure?”

“And if I saw something more than that in you?”

“Why, then,” the Countess placed her free hand atop the Witch’s, and guided it lower. “I would be flattered.”

Even though there were layers of cloth between the Countess’s sex and her hand, she still shuddered against her when she pressed against it. “And if you saw something more than freedom in me?”

“Then you would be left with a decision to make, _non?_ ” The Countess turned to face the Witch, lifted the skirts of her dress, and guided the Witch’s hand underneath them. “Enough talking. Kiss me, Witch of the Wood. _Touch me._ ”

 _Well,_ the Witch thought, _that was enough for her._

Their lips crashed together, mountains of tension crumbling before them as the Witch forced the Countess against the window. The heel of her hand dug against the Countess’s cunt, and the rasp against her ear was enough to make her pick up one of the Countess’s legs and place it around her waist. “You want me inside of you, don’t you?”

“ _God_ yes.”

The Witch smirked. “Tell me, then.”

Their gazes met, sharp and dangerous. “You would not make a Countess beg in her own home.”

The Witch began to withdraw her hand.

“I—” the Countess scowled and grabbed the Witch’s wrist to force it back where it belonged, “Fuck me, you whore.”

“Mmm,” the Witch drawled, refusing to move her fingers, “that sounded more like _demanding_ than begging to me.”

The Countess gaped at her. “You purvey _semantics_ when I am dripping wet for you?”

“You did not do as I asked,” said the Witch with a purr. “ _Beg_ for it.”

“I bow to _no_ _one_ ,” the Countess hissed.

She sighed and pulled her hand away. “A shame. And here I thought I might show you that I can make you scream in the way your husband cannot…”

Straightening her dress and fixing her hair, the Witch turned for the door. The Countess was silent the entire time. It truly _was_ a shame. She thought the Countess would bend for her. And how _delicious_ would it have been to see it, and to hear her cry out for her. Admittedly, the Witch was slightly disappointed. But there were those who valued their pride over bowing to a stranger—a Witch, no less. The Countess was one of them.

She placed her hand on the handle, and turned.

“…Please.”

_Oh?_

“ _Please,_ ” the Countess begged again, “ _please_ fuck me.”

A wicked smile crept on the Witch’s face. She turned around and slowly stalked back to the Countess. “Again _,_ ” she commanded.

“ _Please_ ,” the Countess breathed, “I need you inside of me.”

The Witch pulled off one of her gloves. “Do you, now?”

“ _Yes!_ ” The Countess spread her legs a bit, hiking up the skirts of her dress. “Fuck me with your fingers, _please_.”

 _Gods._ The Witch descended upon her, and wasted no time plunging two fingers inside of her. “Like this?”

The Countess slammed her head against the window and moaned, loud and long. “ _God,_ yes—”

“Where the hell is she?” a muffled voice grouched. “I swear, if she threw herself off the balcony, I’ll kill her myself.”

Another muffled voice—the Count’s. “Ah, Ana, if she did so, she would most likely already be dead.”

A door opened and slammed, presumably Amari inspecting rooms, searching for her. “It’s the _principle_ of the matter, Gérard. God dammit, where the hell is she?”

“Mmm,” the Witch grinned, and withdrew her fingers. “That is my cue to go. Another time, perhaps, we will get to finish what we started?”

“Fuck you, you _tease,_ ” the Countess spat. “I hope you get fed to the dogs.”

“I am taking that as a yes.” The Witch licked her fingers clean and smoothly pulled her glove back on. “Or, at least, I hope it is. You taste exquisite.”

The Count’s voice, closer this time. “I _could_ ask the staff to look for her so we do not waste your time—”

“And what, ask them to look for a Witch? That would scare them shitless. I will find her myself.”

Making herself presentable, the Witch placed one last kiss to the corner of the Countess’s mouth. “Fix yourself up. They are almost here.”

Muttering angrily to herself, the Countess fixed her skirts and hair as the Witch opened the door. “Relieved to see I hadn’t killed myself from boredom, Amari?”

“Where were you?” Amari hissed. “We were looking for fifteen minutes.”

“I apologize,” she smiled. “I was having lovely conversation with the Countess. Your wife is _very_ agreeable, Count Lacroix.”

She could feel the Countess’s glare on her back. “We must have lost track of time,” the Countess added on cheerfully. “We wanted to get away from the party and all. My sincerest apologies, Lady Amari.”

Amari squinted at the Witch. “Well, I am glad to see you’ve made a friend, then. But we must go. Gérard, Amélie, thank you for allowing us to visit.”

The Count boomed with laughter. “Ana, you know that you and your company are always welcome here. Come, come, let me walk you out. Amélie, love, would you accompany us?”

“I am feeling rather exhausted, actually,” the Countess replied. She gave a look to the Witch. “I think I will retire early. But, if I could have a word with the Witch before she leaves?”

The Count nodded. “Of course. Do not make it long, though, lest Ana incur her impatient wrath upon you.”

Amari slapped the Count on the back of the head. “Shut up, you old fool.” She turned to the Witch. “We will be at the entrance waiting. Make it quick.”

The Witch only nodded as they walked away. As soon as they were out of earshot, the Countess grabbed her and pulled her close. “As soon as you leave,” she whispered hotly, “I will touch myself in my bed thinking of you. Remember that. Remember how you left me, and how your _teasing_ delayed us. Remember what you _could_ have had, but what your _insolence_ gave you instead.”

“I am not displeased, _Comtesse,_ ” the Witch chuckled. “I plan to return.”

“Then by _God_ ,” the Countess shoved her off, “don’t be long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Well then,” the Witch dipped the Countess, allowing a spectacular view of her chest and neck. She drew her back up and pressed her lips close to her ear. “It looks like I might have to bite it for you.”
> 
> THANKS 2 MEMEMMETRA ON TUMBLR FOR PROVIDING ME WITH THIS GRADE-A SOLID-GOLD LINE
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed, as usual. ;D

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave feedback if you enjoyed! I would love to write you guys more but I need to know if people actually like what I'm writing you feel me
> 
> Find me reblogging gay overwatch trash at gallantly-dreaming.tumblr.com
> 
> and my mercymaker headcanon sideblog, mercymaker-headcanons.tumblr.com :)


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